Worse Things
by thatswhyyyoudont
Summary: Slash. What could have happened in At World's End when Jack had a meeting with his old "friend" Beckett. N/C. Afterwards, he receives aid from the most unlikely of sources, Barbossa.


The sight of dark, pristine floorboards slowly came into focus. Too pristine to be part of his ship. Jack frowned and raised his lolling head groggily, finding that he was indeed not on board his own ship. It took him a moment to realise that his hands were bound behind his back to the chair he sat on. He struggled to sit up straighter, looking around and realising where he was. The small figures and model ships looked unearthly in the dim light, frozen in war, and the neatness of the rest of the cabin, the order of the porcelain cups and books and maps, only made the glowing poker in the corner all the more sinister. He knew, before he'd even looked, that he'd been stripped of his weapons; there was nothing to do but wait for a chance to talk himself out of this. He didn't have to wait long.

The door was opened by a guard, and the room's owner stepped in leisurely, hands behind his back.

"Hello, mate. I thought you'd never arrive," Jack said, almost nervously, into the silence.

The door was shut behind Beckett, and he merely looked at Jack and set about making a drink. Jack noticed it wasn't tea.

"Rough day, mate?" He also noticed that there was only one glass. Charming.

"Funny," the other man spoke now, after taking a sip. "How the flaws of your character are what have gotten you so far in life."

He absorbed this in silence, looking at the other man warily. It took Jack a moment to realise Beckett was addressing him, and not observing rhetorically. His cool eyes had took on a curious quality; stone-like, flat. He finished his drink and replaced the glass. Coming towards Jack, he knelt before the bound man and simply stared for a few seconds. A small smirk began to form on his lips. It was enough to make Jack uneasy; he stared back, hoping he looked calmer than he felt.

Beckett's hand moved to Jack's hair then, tucking it behind his shoulder, and Jack had to fight not to flinch. He then stiffened in alarm as the other man began to kiss his neck. This close, he realised how strongly the Lord smelt of brandy and reflexively tugged at his bonds. Of all things, he hadn't been expecting this.

"What are you doing?"

Beckett took no notice. He began to painstakingly unbutton Jack's shirt. Jack briefly entertained the idea of flirting his way out, but he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, than Beckett wasn't doing this out of any pleasure or affection; he was doing it purely for Jack's humiliation.

Sliding Jack's shirt down his shoulders, Beckett licked at one of Jack's nipples, while gently pinching the other. Jack squirmed, and bit back a groan.

"You bastard," he said, before he could stop himself, knowing he was playing into the man's hands but unable to help it. Confirming his suspicions, Jack felt the smirk widen against his skin. "What do you want?"

As if in answer, Beckett pried Jack's knees open, and began to undo his pants. Despite himself, Jack could feel he was getting hard. Beckett tugged his hips forward, forcing him to slouch, in order to slip the waist over his hips and slide his trousers down his legs. He kissed Jack's inner thigh almost mockingly, ignoring the throbbing organ in front of him.

"You will remember I once told you," Beckett said now, warm breath flushing over Jack. Jack had to concentrate to take in what he was saying. "That it was nothing personal, just good business?"

Jack could recall nothing of the sort.

Beckett stood suddenly and left him, and Jack let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. After a moment, Beckett turned around and revealed a sparkling, red hot poker in his hands. A blind, hot panic set in Jack, and he struggled and thrust at his ropes madly. Part of him hoped he may faint with fear. Beckett merely smiled thinly and made his way back over to Jack, kneeling before him once more. He held Jack's feet in place with his knees and free hand so he couldn't struggle. Looking up at Jack, his eyes flashed malevolently with real madness, real cruelty. "I lied." Then with a quick whip of his wrist, he pressed the hot brand into the flesh of Jack's thigh.

Jack let out a howl of pain, writhing horribly under the searing flesh, where Beckett's lips had been moments ago. He bit down in an attempt to prevent further sound escaping, and his vision went white. He didn't notice Beckett had moved away until it cleared once more. He sat there, shaking, animal-like in the thoughtless intensity of pain. He wondered if there was more to come, and that was the last thing he remembered before his vision wiped completely.

The next thing he knew, he was stumbling along the deck of the Pearl. He blinked, wondering if he were dead; he had no idea how he had got there. His men were running around as usual, looking as alive and normal as ever. It occurred to him that he must have escaped, or Beckett must have released him, but both thoughts seemed ridiculous. He also became aware that he couldn't walk very well. He was clothed once more and had blood on his hands and chest, and could taste it in his mouth. It didn't take long for him to piece together what had happened.

Leaning against the nearest wall for support, he watched the crew fuzzily. He saw Will nearby and thought that, although planning to recover alone, if he needed help, the younger man was his best bet. Like his father, the boy didn't have it in him to be cruel.

"There you are!" A voice assaulted him then, making him start, and wince as the motion hurt him. "What be the matter wi' ye?"

Jack looked at Barbossa blankly. He struggled to think coherently. Barbossa took in his bloodied form and blinked.

"What happened?" he said, not unkindly.

His thigh was burning. Beckett must have done something to his hands, as they were beginning to hurt like hell too.

Barbossa sighed after not getting a response, and took Jack by the arm. He pulled Jack along under his arm, barking orders at the others as he went, in a manner that would have infuriated Jack under normal circumstances. Finally, they came to his private quarters, where Barbossa hustled Jack in and shut the door behind them.

"Where're ye hurt?" he said grudgingly, after sitting Jack down. "Someone's gotta do it," he said impatiently, in response to Jack's questioning look. "Come, now. Now not be the time tah be crackin' up."

"I'm not." His voice sounded thick; cracked and over-used. He cleared it and tried again. "I can see to me'self."

"Ye can't bandage yer own hands," Barbossa said, as if he were an idiot. He reached for them, bandages and lotion ready waiting at his side.

Jack snatched them back childishly. "_You_ don't have to do it. Go and get Mr Gibbs."

"Don't be a child," Barbossa said scathingly, and reached for his hands again. This time, Jack let him. He worked in silence, frowning and concentrating hard as if Jack's hands were a particularly troublesome part of the deck.

"Cheers," Jack muttered ungraciously, when it was done. He was trying not to let the worst of the pain show on his face.

Barbossa looked at him patiently. "Where else?"

Jack just shook his head.

"Jack," he said, with such exasperation that Jack found he couldn't not obey.

"Here," he muttered, gesturing at his thigh. "And I'm not wearing any..."

Barbossa rolled his eyes and stood. He rummaged through the shelves until he found a relatively clean looking sheet, and handed it to Jack. "Cover ye'self," he ordered, and turned his back.

Jack undid his trousers with still steadying hands, and saw with tiredness and disgust that the material had begun to stick to his wound. Freeing himself with as little noise as possible, he arranged the sheet into make-shift undergarments. "Covered," he called to Barbossa. "But this I can do myself."

"Nigh. It'll hurt too much fer ye tah think straight."

Jack knew this. Barbossa worked at arm's length, with skill Jack would never have given him credit for.

"This'll hurt," he warned, before cleansing the wound.

Jack braced himself, and thought of the irony of it all, having always thought Barbossa a greater threat than Beckett. The pain was approaching unbearable.

"Alright, lad," Barbossa murmured now, surprisingly soft. "Worse things have happened at sea."

Jack wondered if he meant the branding, or if he knew something else had happened. When the older man had finished, Jack pulled up his trousers and slumped back wearily, exhausted. Barbossa just looked at him.

"Alright?" he asked, unusual gentleness still in his eyes.

"Yep." He paused. "Thank you."

"Aye." He stood up and made for the door. "I'll leave ye in peace."

Grateful, Jack shut his eyes.

Barbossa took charge that night, without ceremony and without grandeur. When the crew asked of Jack's whereabouts, he told them he slept in his cabin, and somehow they had the sense not to disturb him. As he expected, Jack didn't emerge for a long time.

When he did, Barbossa was alone and smoking his pipe, considering what he knew of Beckett and trying to sever himself from the feelings the day had aroused in him. Jack sat at his side and, after a moment, offered him his rum. Barbossa could tell he would be all right now. Also in silence, Barbossa grasped the bottle by the neck and drank.


End file.
